


full circle

by Radio Rascal (Vagrants)



Category: Gears of War - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Not A Happy Ending, Torture, i love him i really do i just, you know i had to do it to him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16348034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrants/pseuds/Radio%20Rascal
Summary: Skorge runs into some friends after his disastrous defeat at the hands of Delta. The Riftworm is dead and the Hollows and the Queen are gone, but surely there's still a home for him somewhere. His colleagues disagree.





	full circle

**Author's Note:**

> i always thought Skorge's canonical death was kind of bullshit so here's a fic about that. you don't HAVE to have read The Rise of RAAM for this but it provides extra context.

It was easy to deprive the mind of pain. All he had to do was focus and breathe, like he was entering a trance—not that the trance ever came, since his lungs were empty but for wretched cold, moist surface air. The feeling of it was the same, retreating into his spirit, pretending his body didn’t exist. Still the pain reared up to remind him of itself.

He didn’t open his eyes, for he knew the view wouldn’t have changed. Above him loomed a dark beast covered in sparkling, laughing eyes, and surrounding him were its jagged, frigid teeth. Skorge lay helpless and prone and alone in the maw of the world.

There was nobody to call to—not with his voice, not with his mind. The queen was either distant or dead. It didn’t matter which. Not now. The god was dead, that he knew. That mattered, and it made him angry, and the rage kept him afloat in the darkness welling up through his head. Thinking about his revenge was the fire that would keep him warm through this hideous surface night.

Humans had to die, and he had to be the one to kill them. To that end, he had to defeat the cold and the pain. He had to regain use of his legs, but that could wait for a day or two. It must; he didn’t know how to heal such a severe injury, or if it was possible. If it wasn’t then he would crawl to Marcus Fenix’s bed and tear the human open with his bare—

He heard Kantus voices. He lay still, paradoxically falling silent at the idea of contact because he was half unbelieving. It didn’t seem probable to him that he would be found so soon, when he had been stranded so far from any outposts or cities or rendezvous points. His first instinct was that his brain had created the sound, as it was often creative and...assertive during moments of passion.

From somewhere to his left, beyond the restricted scope of his vision, came distinctive, involuntary squawks of surprise, and even a few chirps that sounded like greetings. He wheezed out notes of his own, seized by a strong and desperate need to have his voice heard.

Their pale forms appeared over him, three of them, standing tall and peering down at him. Tiny noises emanated from them, too faint to be heard by anything but the most sensitive of creatures, but none of them spoke and neither did Skorge.

He had the feeling something important was happening, and he couldn’t understand what it could be. Everything was foggy and difficult to grasp, except for the anger, which he kept drifting back to like it was the center of a whirpool in which he was trapped.

“Ketor,” said the man standing closest to his head. “We believed you dead. What grace it is to find you.” The words were hollow, like wind.

“I’m very hurt,” he replied, straining his words and forcing himself to not scream. The effort of speaking was more agonizing than he expected. “I can’t move...below.” He lifted an arm to demonstrate.

The three Kantus looked at him, nodding vaguely. Their eyes surveyed his body and he did not feel they were thinking kind thoughts of healing. The back of his head grew itchy.

“We are here,” another Kantus whispered, “because the Hollows are flooding. Why are they flooding, holy Ketor?”

Skorge took a ragged breath, grinding the gears in his head together, trying to push out a reply before the first Kantus took up the silence.

“The Destroyer is dead,” he said. He lifted a bare, clawed foot, and Skorge was terrified, he didn’t realize his kind had claws that long, that sharp, had never noticed how thick were their leg muscles. The foot was pressed flat against his chest, heel level with the toes, squeezing the air from his lungs.

Pain radiated from the spot, and he tried to cry out or speak to no avail. He knew how strong Kantus were—he had been using a pair of Kantus legs for over three cycles—but it was still shocking, how much pressure was on him, like a mountain had decided to rest on his hearts. In the silvery light he could see the tension of the muscles holding him down, and knew this person was barely exerting himself.

“The Destroyer is dead,” the Kantus repeated, in a low growl. “Our Hollows are flooding. Holy Ketor, what is your answer to this? What hope is there in this world?”

“Did you not prophesize our victory?” the third Kantus, completely silent until now, added. “You said. You told us all that the Horde would rise to glory.”

Involuntary tears leaked from his eyes, and still he wasn’t given an answer. He thought they might mistake the tears for emotion.

“You were wrong,” said the second Kantus, stepping forward to stand by the side of his current tormentor. For a second he feared he would do the same as the first, aiming to slowly crush Skorge to death. Instead, the man reached to his side and pulled a knife.

“We need to have rules about this,” the third Kantus said. “Each of us gets to cut him once. Then he dies.”

Skorge thrashed with what little range of movement he still possessed. It didn’t impress them.

“What if, instead of one cut, it’s one injury?” the second Kantus asked, in the kind of conversational tone used for discussing dinner. “You can take off some of his spurs, I’ll cut out his tongue, something like that.”

“Sawing his spurs would take a long time.”

“That’s why I said some. Take the smaller ones.”

The third Kantus considered this, then nodded.

Skorge shoved his body up and the Kantus drew back reflexively, giving him a little room that he used to scream. It was a tiny and pitiful noise, especially to come from someone like him, but this wasn’t right, this couldn’t happen and he had to convince them somehow that they couldn’t do this. They couldn’t do this to him.

“This is what you deserve,” the first Kantus growled, shoving back down on him with such force that he felt his ribs crack. “Did you know we wanted to kill you? Do you realize now how much better it would have been had you died?”

Skorge shook his head, forming his throat around the words _no, please, yes, no, no,_ but nothing came out. The two Kantus, done conspiring over his execution, approached him and knelt by his head. He swiped at them with his claws, a weak rebellion. One of them caught his hand, stronger fingers curling around his own and squeezing until it hurt and he was immobilized.

He froze, tensing like he’d been shocked. The feeling was familiar enough—sparked enough emotion—that he screamed silently again, the memory burning him like acid.

This had to be a nightmare. He would come back to himself, to the scene he saw in his mind, which was reality and not _this_ , this couldn’t be real, this couldn’t happen—couldn’t be happening—

As quickly as the vision had come, it passed, and he was sick with the knowledge that he had seen the past, not the present; and this was not the future but the true present, his current reality and it was about to end. One of the Kantus by his head flashed the knife again, and he reached out to that past-vision again, hastily wrapping himself in the flimsy comfort it would offer. His fractured brain was not so cooperative, and gave him no falsehoods in which to hide.

The past was gone. The future was gone. He was staring down at all he would ever know from now to the end of his life, and he was not angry; he was scared.

* * *

They left his body, desecrated and torn, where they found it. Even if the Horde had burial rituals, the three wouldn’t have cared to perform any ceremony for their ketor.

Dawn rolled over the night sky. Sera warmed herself somewhat under her sun, but his body grew ever colder, depleted of that warming rage.


End file.
